Ever Since I Set Eyes On You
by polly plummer
Summary: Castle turns up at Beckett's apartment one night requesting that she help him drink a bottle of champagne, much to her displeasure. Alcohol and a lot of unspoken feelings leads to both of them being more honest than either of them were intending to be.
1. Part One

**So I am way late to the whole Castle party, but since the beginning of last week I've watched the first season right through to almost up to the end of season 3. While a part of me can't believe I haven't been watching it before, I'm also pretty glad that I haven't had to wait each week for a new episode; the stress would have been too much, for sure!**

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**Part One**

The knocking is reasonable at first, or as reasonable as somebody knocking on your door at nearly eleven thirty at night can be, but it quickly escalates into hammering. Although it seems unlikely that a psychopathic murderer would announce his or her presence with a knock on her front door, she still grabs her gun; it's late and it is New York City, after all.

She realizes as soon as she opens her door that her fears were unfounded. There's only one man stupid enough to knock on her door so late with no thought to her possible reaction, or overreaction, and the fact that she has a gun.

"Castle," she says, resting her gun on the table at the side of her door.

"Evening, Beckett!"

Castle greets her cheerily, grinning as if this were nothing out of the ordinary. He's dressed in a tux although she can't remember him mentioning any particular special event on tonight.

She stares at him stonily.

"_Castle_," she hisses. "What are you doing here? I was about to go to bed."

"Is that an invitation, Detective?" He teases.

"_No_," she snaps, glaring. "What do you want?"

Smiling, he pulls a bottle from behind his back and raises his eyebrows.

"A little help?" He suggests. "In drinking this?"

She eyes the champagne in his hand disdainfully.

"Been to a party?" She asks irritably, thinking of her own night in with leftover Chinese food and a re-run of a 90s sitcom she's already forgotten the name of.

"Just a little gathering with the mayor. Nothing too fancy."

"How nice for you."

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" He questions.

"No," she replies.

In response he simply steps inside anyway, neatly avoiding her hand as she reaches out to stop him.

"Castle," Beckett says, still holding her door open and looking unimpressed. "Get out. Now."

"But then who will help me drink this?" He asks, as if that's a legitimate question.

He's swaying ever so slightly on the spot.

"You're drunk," Beckett says, realization dawning.

"Might have had a few already," he agrees. "You've got some catching up to do, Beckett."

As if she invited him in, he saunters down her hallway and into her living room.

"Are you going to stand there all night?" He calls over his shoulder to her.

Furious, she shuts her front door with more of a slam than she intended; hopefully none of the neighbors heard. She follows him, glowering now, at the sheer nerve of his actions. How _dare_ he?

"In case it's slipped your mind, I can arrest you. Do you want to add breaking and entering to that little list on your police record?"

"I didn't break, I just entered," he says, grinning.

"Technicality," Kate says shortly.

"So arrest me, Detective. We could play with your handcuffs."

Beckett rolls her eyes in disgust at his implication, although secretly she feels her stomach dip at the suggestion, at the idea…

"What exactly were you expecting, Castle?" Beckett asks disbelievingly. "For me to get changed into my sexiest underwear and invite you into my bedroom?"

"Well that would be a start," Castle murmurs, taking a step towards her.

In response Beckett takes a step back, keeping a safe distance between them. It suddenly seems imperative that she keep at least three feet between them, preferably five.

"Come on, Kate," he says coaxingly, and the surprise of hearing him use her first name gives her a strange thrill. "At least help me drink this champagne?"

He holds up the bottle in his right hand.

"Is that what it's going to take to get you to leave?" She demands, feigning irritation.

"Yes. I'll leave once it's finished, scout's honor," he tells her solemnly, holding up his hand.

"Fine," Kate relents, although secretly she's rather please he's staying. "Open the bottle."

She gets two wine glasses from her kitchen and places them on the coffee table next to the bottle.

"Sorry, looks like all my champagne flutes are in the dishwasher," she quips.

"Wine glasses are fine. So how have you been spending your Friday evening?"

"I'm not sure I can top a party with the mayor," she says, to avoid having to answer his question.

"Don't worry, I'm here now. We can have a little fun."

"Oh, and I suppose you think you're the most exciting thing in my life, do you, Castle?" She asks, rolling her eyes at his arrogance.

"Come on, Detective, I know you're only feigning exasperation to hide your _obvious_ desire for me. Why not give in?"

She laughs derisively at this, although perhaps it hits home more than he realizes.

"You wish, Castle."

"Why can't you just admit it, Kate?"

She swallows, hesitates. "Okay," she says softly. "I want you."

"What?" Castle's mouth drops open as he stares at her.

Kate feels a smile tug at her lips at this reaction, at his shock and inability to form his usual ever-ready quick and witty answer.

"What's the matter, Castle?" She teases, her voice low and husky now. "Cat got your tongue? I thought that's what you _wanted_ to hear."

Recovering his composure, his says quickly, a smile forming as he does so, "It was. I mean, it _is_…"

Kate steps closer, until they're standing close enough to feel the heat emanating from each other's bodies. His eyes flicker to her lips and he reaches up a hand to rest it on her waist, on her hip. Her shirt feels thin under his finger, flimsy and insubstantial enough that he thinks he can almost feel her skin through it, although that might be his overactive imagination racing ahead, filling in blanks with things he has imagined time and time again. She leans in, nearer and nearer to his face, and he thinks she is going to kiss him, but instead she leans past his face to his ear. Her hair, soft and silky, is against his face, the faint scent of the shampoo she used this morning easily detectable at such a close range; cherries. He can feel her breath too, warm against his ear and neck, a light caress.

"This is what you want?" She asks again and he nods, unable to speak.

"Too bad I was kidding then," she whispers in his ear.

Just as before, this causes his jaw to drop as Beckett steps neatly away from him.

"Shall we open the champagne?" She suggests, smiling lightly as if nothing has just happened.

Flustered, Castle picks up the bottle and opens it. Usually he is the one teasing her and he is not as used to having their roles reversed.

She smiles at him as she takes a sip from her wine glass. She's playing it cool, but there's a dull ache somewhere in her middle that's been steadily growing since Castle got here. No, since long before tonight, it's been growing stronger and stronger every day, every time she catches him staring at her, all the cases she wouldn't have been able to solve without him, all the unexpectedly sweet and thoughtful things that make up the times in-between him being a smart ass.

She wishes she was as brave as he thought she was. If she were then maybe she might actually do something. Say something.

But she's not sure she's everything he thinks she is. Not at all.

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**So at the moment the plan is for this to have a second part, although from what I've already written for part 2 it **_**may**_** end up having a third part. Anyway, reviews would be appreciated…rather anxious about writing a Castle fic! Thanks for reading!**


	2. Part Two

**The season 4 finale, guys… asdfghjkl, I can't even express my reaction to it in words. I cannot **_**wait **_**for September. Everything I do up until then is just meaningless crap to fill the empty days.**

**Anyway, thank you all so, so much for the reviews, follows and favorites! They all meant a lot, especially the people who said I wrote Kate well! I thought it would be easier to write Castle but it hasn't turned out that way at all. There are certain parts of this chapter that I don't like but I'm clearly never going to get them exactly how I want them, so I'm just posting it like this and hoping nobody will notice the clumsier parts!**

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**Part Two**

The bottle of champagne is empty, long finished, and now, without really meaning to, Kate finds she has finished her second tumbler of whiskey, and yet Castle is still here. She knows she could ask him to leave, _tell_ him to leave, but she doesn't. She likes having him here, just like she has liked having him follow her around every day at work, as much as she's feigned annoyance. If he were to leave now, her apartment or her life, she knows she would be upset. Heartbroken even, and that's not a word Kate likes to use, especially in relation to Castle.

She knows she should say something of this to him. She's been thinking about it for a while, but thinking about it is much easier than saying it. She's replayed the conversation in her head countless times, each time with a slightly different outcome. She knows what she's scared of. Becoming another notch on his bedpost. Having him lose interest once he no longer has the thrill of the chase. What if that is all they've got?

But what if she never finds out?

"Rick?" She can hear her voice waiver, but it doesn't embarrass her like it normally would, this weakness.

He knows at once, just from hearing her say his name, his _first_ name, that she's no longer fooling around, teasing him.

"Kate?" He returns, watching her expectantly. Carefully.

Her gaze slips downwards to her own hands momentarily, but a second later it's focused back on him, a resolute expression on her face.

"I wasn't kidding," she whispers.

An hour or more may have passed since the conversation she is referring to and he may be more than a little inebriated, but Castle knows at once what she means. It's as if that moment never ended, that consuming the champagne, the whiskey, was simply a continuation of it, or an interlude, a way of getting her halfway as drunk as he is, to give her the extra confidence she needed to say something like this.

"You weren't kidding," he repeats solemnly, nodding.

He already knew that, didn't he? Somewhere inside of himself he's known for a long time. She's known it too. It's just that neither of them are brave enough to say it.

She looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to say or do something, to give her a sign as to what she should do next. This hesitancy is not her normal style, but then nothing about tonight is normal.

He shifts along the sofa slowly until he's sitting right next to her. He's sat next to her a thousand times before, at her desk, in the car, at Friday night drinks with Ryan and Esposito. Sitting next to her is nothing out of the ordinary. Except that Ryan and Esposito aren't here this time (thank God) and her thigh is touching his. Then there's the way she's looking at him. He's not sure he's seen that before either.

"Kate," he begins, but then she smiles at him and he's forgotten what he was trying to say to her.

Her eyes flicker to his lips and he knows she is thinking of kissing him. He has been in this situation a countless number of times, women about to make a pass at him, or thinking about locking their lips with his, but this is not like the others. He has never waited for a woman before. He's never _wanted_ to wait because nobody has ever been worth waiting for, but…this is Kate. And when he's with her he knows that nobody else _would_ be worth waiting for.

It's hard to know who leans forward first, he thinks it might be her, she's certain it's him, but in the end it hardly matters. Lips brush against lips, hesitant. This is crossing a line and both of them know that once you've crossed a metaphorical line you can't go back to the other side. Neither of them wants to lose the other, but neither of them are willing to stop either.

Kate has carefully constructed walls. She has spent years building them on a foundation of grief and regret and all in all they've done their job pretty well; they've kept people out and she's not been hurt. Much. She's not sure she's ready to pull those walls down for him, and yet she has to admit to herself that it's too late. _She_ might not have taken them down, but Castle has been doing it since the first day they met, brick by brick, row by row, and all of a sudden she finds that there are no bricks left, just her and Castle and an inconsequential pile of rubble.

Giving into him had always seem like the easier option rather than fighting him, and she had prided herself on not doing it, but now she sees that she was wrong all along. _Not_ giving in has always been the easier option for him a distance, holding him at arm's length has been the coward's way out and she doesn't want to be a coward.

He has saved her life. She is not only thinking of all the cases he has guided her through, even when she wouldn't admit that that was what he was doing. No, he had been saving her life long before he had ever known he was doing it. She could remember queuing for hours just to buy his books on the day they were published and then staying up until the sky was turning gray with the morning light reading. Hours and hours could pass by while she was reading and she wouldn't notice. Everything was forgotten, even who she was, until she would reach the last page, shut the book and realize with disappointment that she was still Katherine Beckett. Nothing in her life had changed. Still, those few hours of escape were what she needed to get through her mother's murder. One day she will tell him this, but not tonight. Tonight she is going to think only of the moment, the here and now.

He rests his hand lightly on her waist and either she doesn't notice, too involved in kissing him, or she doesn't care, so he slips his hand under the hem of her shirt and slides his hand around to the small of her back. Her skin rises at his touch and there's no way that she isn't aware of what he's doing now, but still she doesn't protest.

_Kate Beckett is going to sleep with him._

The shock of this thought, the _reality_ of it, not simply the fantasy that he's dwelled on and played out in his head time and time again since first meeting her, makes him break away from her.

Kate blinks at him, looking confused as if she has temporarily forgotten where she is and who she is.

"Are you sure this is what you really want?" He asks, not because he wants to, but because he _has_ to check with her. To know for sure.

She nods.

"Are _you_?" She asks.

He smiles at the ridiculousness of this question.

"Kate, I've been waiting for you for years now. It was always you I wanted."

If he could, he'd tell her how he feels about her, how he _really_ feels about her, but for a writer who's never normally short of words, somebody who depends on them to make his living, he finds himself completely without the right words for her. He knows then that there _are _no words that would be fitting, that the words he wants don't exist and never will. In the end all the adjectives in the world are still just words. Markings on a piece of paper, or inadequate sounds falling clumsily out of somebody's mouth. They aren't enough.

As if she knows this she says nothing in response to what could almost be classed as a declaration of love when it comes to Richard Castle, instead simply smiling again, and it's enough for him.

He kisses her again, harder than before and she responds likewise. The hesitancy has gone; they're both all in now, whether they like it or not. Lips tug on lips, teeth clash against teeth, tongues press against tongues, and they are sharing breaths now, both reluctant to pull away even for a second.

Kate is no longer thinking at all. It's a nice feeling. It's the feeling she strives for when she has a tumbler, or three, of whiskey at the end of a particularly hard day, an escape from her thoughts, that pleasant nothingness. And here she is, kissing Castle, making out with him on her own sofa like a high school sophomore, all thoughts of corpses and murderers gone entirely. She is not thinking anymore about the prudence of her actions; it doesn't matter. She's wanted this for a long time and so has he. It's a relief to just _do_ for once, instead of endlessly playing the possibilities over in her mind. She's _tired_ of that. _This_ is what she wants.

She reaches up for the top button on his shirt, her hand moving over his chest until she finds it. She fumbles for a moment before she manages to push it undone and move down to the next one, her hands moving more quickly now, as she remembers how this works. Resting her hands on his chest, she moves them upwards and over his shoulders, pushing his shirt off. One less barrier between them. This is easier than she thought it would be and she wonders what she was so nervous about.

His own hands are imitating hers now, unbuttoning her shirt, perhaps a little more expertly than she managed his. Impatient, she pulls it off herself, not breaking contact with his lips. This is something she finds she could do all night, kiss him, and she's surprised at herself. After years of denying her feelings, more to herself than anyone, she suddenly finds she cannot possibly stop herself anymore, even if she wanted to.

And now his hand is on her thigh and she doesn't mind. In fact she is dimly aware that she is encouraging him, her own hand pushing his further up her leg. She has gone through these motions before, with Will, with Tom, with Josh. She knows how it works, and yet this is not her going through the motions. Her hands are moving of their own volition, yes, but it is not the movement of learnt behavior, rather it simply feels right. Natural. _This is how it should always be_, a voice says somewhere in her head and she agrees.

She stands slowly, pulling him up with her. His arms snake around her waist and she puts her own arms over his shoulders, drawing him backwards in what she hopes is the general direction of her bedroom door, unwilling to break the kiss to lead him there.

Her bedroom is in darkness and neither of them pause to flick the light switch on. She knows him so well without ever having even touched him like this before. Her hands already know where to go. The light seems unnecessary, a waste of precious moments when they've already wasted enough time.

As if he is thinking the same thing he reaches down to undo the button on her jeans. Kate feels a strange thrill of anticipation in her stomach. It's a long time since she's felt anything like this. _Alive_. She doesn't even know how she manages to get _his_ clothes off, her hands are shaking so much, but she does manage it, somehow, and then they're on her bed.

With her lying underneath him he realizes he can feel her heart against his own chest, beating perhaps a little faster than normal, or a lot. At least that's what he likes to think. It's a reassuring reminder that this is real, that it's happening. He's no longer simply imagining scenes for his books, this is real life. _She's_ real.

He breaks apart, keeping his face a few inches from hers and she looks at him questioningly through the darkness.

"Scared?" He asks.

"Yes," she whispers back breathlessly.

"Me too," he confides, smiling gently.

She begins to laugh, relieved that they've both admitted it. It makes it easier, somehow, to know that screwing this up would mean just as much to him as it would to her. If she was terrified before he admitted it, now she is simply only a little apprehensive; after all, why worry about something going wrong before it's even really begun?

He is kissing her frantically now, desperate to pull her closer, closer, closer, craving skin on skin. All the lingering glances, the hands brushing against hands, unseen by everyone but them, it has all been leading up to this. She is just as eager; she has fought this for too long and now it seems imperative that she be as close as she can to him, press her body to his. Their legs are tangled together now and she can no longer quite tell whose limbs are whose, nor does she care where she ends and he begins. If she could, she thinks, she would crawl into his skin.

Perhaps she is right and all they have between them is the thrill of the chase. Possibly she will be just another notch on his bedpost. But she doesn't think so. She doesn't think so at all.

And for once she'd rather find out than spend the rest of her life wondering about the 'what ifs'.

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**I did think about upping the rating of this but I decided that I probably wouldn't like what I wrote if I did it so I'm going to do what they did in Always and leave it to your imagination. And I still haven't completely decided whether to have a final morning after part to this or not…I've written some, but I can't deicide!**


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